


You’re My King And I’m Your Lionheart

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Also James Writes Fanfic, Emotions, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possibly Even A Marriage Proposal, Random Princess Bride References, See Michael Panic, reassurance, sick!James
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is very sick James, extremely worried Michael, emergency hospital trips, and lots of cuddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You’re My King And I’m Your Lionheart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachanlv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachanlv/gifts).



> Title courtesy of Of Monsters And Men, from the lovely “King and Lionheart”.

James shouldn’t’ve answered the phone. Inanely, ludicrously, that was Michael’s first thought, and the only one he had for several seconds.  
  
“James,” he said, while the clouds flew in overhead to obscure the world, bitterly appropriate narrative timing, “why are you—you shouldn’t be home yet, I thought—” He’d only been calling to check in. To let James know that filming was running a bit behind schedule, that he would still be home for dinner regardless, would kiss James senseless then.  
  
James should have been in the midst of interviews, charming each and every journalist with a smile and a sideways glance from ocean-sunshine eyes. Should’ve been cheerfully occupied, telling reporters scandalous details about his and Michael’s sex life, delivered with a laugh, so that no one’d ever believe the jokes might be true. James had decided early on that this was part of the game, fun-with-reporters, and Michael always did his best to keep up, but James generally won the outrageous-comment trophy anyway. Michael never minded. He got to have the truth behind all the outrageousness, after all.  
  
James absolutely might answer his phone mid-interview in order to have some fun with Michael and the media, but he’d’ve done so much sooner, and with merriment bubbling over in that voice. Not like this. Not sounding like this.  
  
“Michael,” James murmured, exhaustedly, a question, and from the tone one he’d asked more than once; and Michael hated himself and his momentary speechless shock and the horrible ominous clouds even more.   
  
“I’m here, I just—where are you? You should be—are you all right?”  
  
“I’m only tired. And…at home. In bed. I was—”  
  
“You went home? You—I _knew_ you shouldn’t be up, shouldn’t be doing publicity, not yet, you’re not—I’m coming home, too, all right? Right now.”  
  
“Aren’t you filming? Not that I wouldn’t appreciate the company…”  
  
“I’m done.” Technically a lie, but one that would be true as soon as he found the director and made his argument.   
  
“I know that’s not true, you know. Saw your schedule this morning. But…thank you.”  
  
“You do like to make it difficult for me to surprise you. I’m on the way.”  
  
“Sorry about that, I just like knowing where you are…” That beloved voice trailed off, briefly.  
  
“James?”  
  
“Still here…”  
  
“Don’t get up. Stay in bed. I’ll be right there.”  
  
“As you wish,” James said, which ought to’ve been reassuring—James quoting _The Princess Bride_ was generally a good sign, ever since he’d decided Michael’d make a perfect Dread Pirate Roberts two Halloweens previously—but wasn’t, because James was agreeing with him about the bed rest and the coming home, and that meant something else. The opposite of good.  
  
He said, “I love you,” and got off the phone, and ran.  
  
Even their shared flat, as he entered, felt gloom-stricken. Unnerved. Disconsolate. The silence, the door not creaking, his key’s hushed rattle in the lock, sent shivers down his spine.  
  
“James?”  
  
A distant murmur, from the bedroom. Nothing loud enough to make out. More shivers.   
  
All of James’s abandoned script pages, the half-read Star Trek novel left bookmarked on the couch-arm, the spotless countertops where dinner might’ve been in progress, shouted alarm up at him. Told him to hurry.  
  
He did.  
  
James was tucked into a small miserable ball beneath every blanket on the bed, face pale and drawn. When Michael sat down beside him, he made a wordless noise of gratitude and nestled a little closer, but didn’t try to sit up.  
  
Michael kissed his forehead, softly. “Hey. How’re you?”  
  
“Not great. I just…I couldn’t handle the rest of them. The interviews. No energy. Like being run over by a truck, except all over, everywhere, inside.”  
  
“Hmm.” He snuck a hand under the layers of blankets, wanting to touch, needing to feel James’s presence, real and solid and here. Discovered something else alarming.  
  
“You didn’t even get undressed? Come on…”  
  
“I did say I was tired.” James didn’t protest being eased upright, or the careful stripping away of jacket and tie and belt, all the accessories that had evidently been too demanding to remove. Michael didn’t let his hands tremble, even though they wanted to, troubled by the listlessness. Even all that hair lacked its usual enthusiasm.  
  
“I’m fine, or I will be. Really. Maybe with some sleep…”  
  
“You had appendicitis, James!”  
  
“The key word there is had…”  
  
“Your appendix got taken out. You are appendix-less. You’re missing an internal organ as we speak.”  
  
“Hardly an important one.”  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re fine. Does this hurt? Sitting up?”  
  
“No …not really…maybe a little…” Which meant yes. Michael bit his lip. Hard. That hurt, too.  
  
“Do you think…do you want to go back to the hospital?” His voice shook, despite all his best efforts. Treacherous voice, betraying all his feelings that way.  
  
“No,” James sighed, and tipped his head to rest on Michael’s shoulder. “It’s just me feeling sort of….drained. All worn out. Long day.”  
  
“I love you.” Maybe the words could be bandages. Antibiotics. Healing. He gave up on the rest of the clothes and tucked James back into the blanket-nest, himself stretched out alongside, hand beneath that exhausted head as a cushion.  
  
“I love you, too.” James closed his eyes, taking all the color out of the world. Michael pressed his spare hand against his own eyes, briefly, a barricade against tears. Set it on James’s stomach, feather-light and afraid.  
  
“Can I see? Please?” This got a weary nod; Michael blinked, wondered why he felt dizzy, then realized he’d been holding his breath. Of course. Breathing. How obvious.  
  
He touched the edges of the bandage, cautiously. Lifted protective fabric away. Swallowed, hard, at the short line of black stitches, flesh still red and raw, marks like ugly heresy scrawled over the cinnamon-cream and gold of that skin.  
  
 _Too_ red. Too hot, and tight, when he touched, as lightly as possible, the barest edges of that wound.  
  
“…James?”  
  
“Mmm…”  
  
“I…think…you won’t like me saying this. I don’t like it either. But. Um. I think we should. Hospital. Sorry.”  
  
“…seriously?”  
  
“Seriously. Yes. Please.”  
  
James sighed again.  
  
“I know,” Michael said, “I know, but—” and eyed those ominous warning signs anew, heat spreading grotesque tendrils out to clutch at all the freckles.  
  
James had been in New Zealand, filming, when he’d collapsed. The story, the one Michael’d heard long after the fact, had been entirely believable: James being the consummate professional, note-perfect in every scene, and then, on the last day of filming, delivering his final line, turning around, very politely saying, _sorry, I think I might finally need to see a doctor now_ , and passing out at his director’s feet.  
  
He’d gotten the best care possible, of course, but then, because he was James, had also gotten on a plane and come back to London to do interviews and prove his own lack of fragility and sleep in bed with Michael, at night.   
  
Airports. Interviews. So many people. So many possible dangers. Stress. Fresh stitches through delicate tissue. Infection.  
  
“I don’t need to go back to the hospital,” James said, and put his head back down on Michael’s arm. “I’m only tired. I’ve been tired all day.”  
  
Michael sighed. Stared at closed eyes, at that cruel line bisecting helpless freckles, back at that pale face. James was wrong, he thought, but James was also too stubborn for his own good and would argue vehemently if he pushed the issue.  
  
Arguments probably weren’t good for healing, either.  
  
“Okay. Um. Compromise. You rest for a while. I’ll cancel your interviews for tomorrow. And make you tea for now. And if you’re still feeling this bad after a couple of hours—or if this gets worse—you let me take you to the hospital. Fair?” And he added, deep inside, sincerely: please don’t let this get worse…  
  
James didn’t answer for a second, and Michael prepared to make his case again, but then that worn-out voice conceded, into his arm, “Fair.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Love you. Even when you’re being excessively practical.”  
  
“ _Excessively_ practical…? One of us has to be.”  
  
“You promised me tea.”  
  
“I did. I’ll be right back, then.”  
  
Tea only took a few short minutes. But a few was too many; he felt himself grew more and more on edge with each passing second, nerves screaming at him to hurry up, to make it back to the bed, to not leave James alone…  
  
The kettle shrieked at him. He jumped, nearly lost his footing, and scowled back at it. Ventured back to the bedroom with hot-beverage offering in hand.  
  
“James?”  
  
No answer. Maybe James had gone to sleep.  
  
He set the steaming mug carefully on the nightstand. Touched the only visible cheek with his hand. Then caught his breath.  
  
“Um. James? Wake up?” Accompanied by shaking of a shoulder, gently.  
  
James blinked, mumbled something that didn’t sound like any recognizable English word, and shut his eyes again.  
  
“I mean it,” Michael told him. “Come on. Wake up. This is worse, I think you have a fever, come on…”  
  
“I do?” Without moving. Not even the eloquent eyelashes. “Might explain why it’s been so cold, then…”  
  
“It’s not cold.” It wasn’t. The night was a nice one, balmy and temperate and pleasant, at least physically so. “Do you still want tea?”  
  
A headshake, against the pillow; and that breathing had gotten fast, and shallow.  
  
“Can you talk to me?”  
  
“I think you might be right…”  
  
Michael’d rarely heard more terrifying words. “Hospital?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Okay. Okay, hospital, right now. Can you stand?”  
  
The answer turned out to be yes, but only barely. With support. Michael grabbed the closest jacket—his own, but James would probably appreciate the extra length, curled up inside thick wool that cuddled him protectively—and got one arm around that compact waist.  
  
James attempted a step. Inhaled sharply. Leaned more weight against him. “Michael?”  
  
“Do you want me to carry you? We’re almost there, and your car’s happy to help, it’s worried about you, everything’s worried about you…” They could call an ambulance. Emergency services. But by the time paramedics actually arrived, James might be worse. And Michael could drive very fast.  
  
“Poor car…” Even that voice sounded unfocused, Scottish amber blurring into pain and incoherence. “You’ll have to tell it for me, everything’s okay…”  
  
“I will.” It’d be a lie if he did. James didn’t seem to notice that he didn’t try.  
  
 _Extremely_ fast, he thought, and surreptitiously tightened his hands on the wheel. Wondered who appreciated the reassurance more, between himself and the automobile.  
  
Red lights. A deserted intersection, though, miraculously; and Michael glanced from right to left and then ran all the lights regardless of color.  
  
James, who should’ve enjoyed this demonstration of vehicular prowess, didn’t comment.   
  
“James,” he tried, looking over. “James. Stay awake. Talk to me.”  
  
“ ’m awake…”  
  
“No, you’re not. But you need to be, come on…”  
  
“Love you.”  
  
“I know. I know you do. I love you, too. Keep talking to me.”  
  
A pause, frighteningly long; and then, “Michael?”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“I…don’t actually feel very good.”  
  
“You don’t,” Michael said, and nearly laughed; and then flicked a glance over at James’s face and nearly drove off the road.   
  
“You—James, you’re going to be fine, we’re nearly there, just hang on—”  
  
“Trying.” That voice faded, caught, stuttered over some mute flaring of hurt or dizziness or both. “I’m…I might be…”  
  
“You might be what?”  
  
James whispered, “Scared.”  
  
And Michael knew what the end of the world had to feel like, then, right there in that word. Two vowels and four consonants and fear.  
  
He couldn’t answer, at first. And then he tried. Tried everything, every reassuring phrase he could imagine, a hand reaching across the space between them, futilely, to cling to James’s knee, his foot flattening the gas pedal. James smiled a little at the effort, but the expression was strained.  
  
James was afraid. The universe was so very, very wrong. Broken.  
  
Night had come in, darkened lowering skies. No stars emerging. Too many hazy clouds. They enfolded the city lights like the tattered shreds of a shroud.  
  
No. He denied that comparison with every atom of his heart. No. Not a shroud. Please.  
  
By the time he flung the car into the vague direction of a parking space, James wasn’t moving. Wasn’t answering. Not even when Michael yanked open the door and shook him. Hard.  
  
He pulled James into his arms and stumbled toward the entrance and found emergency-room personnel already running their way with a gurney.  
  
The air was so very cold, against his skin. He’d remember the ice of it forever. The sound of his own feet, running. His hurried breathless explanations, how the stitches had looked when he’d checked, what had happened the first time while James’d been filming. Words that fell lifelessly into the night, insufficient. Fixing nothing.  
  
James woke up enough to breathe, “Michael…” when they got him onto the support, wheels rattling along the pavement.  
  
“I’m here,” Michael managed, reaching for his hand, through all the terror, through the sound of his own heart thundering in his ears. “I’m here, I love you, you’ll be all right—”  
  
“Hurts…”  
  
“I know, I’m sorry, it’ll get better, I’ll make it better, I promise, I can do that—” He looked up. Met the eyes of the closest paramedic. Knew he was begging, desperate, and didn’t care.   
  
“I think…that’s not…one of your superpowers, sorry…”  
  
“James, please—please open your eyes, please don’t be—no, come on, you can’t—it is, it is one of my superpowers, you will be all right, but it only works if you believe me, so you have to believe me, please—”  
  
“Surgery—” said one of the doctors, and “Wait here, sir,” said the other one, directed at Michael, and he tried to hold on but they took James away from him, down the hall, disappearing under the blinding scrutiny of the lights.  
  
He took one more ineffectual step. Stopped. Not as if he could follow where James was.  
  
The world swirled and blurred into watercolor tears, around him. Unreal. Impossible. This had to be some sort of bad dream, it’d all happened too fast, and James was gone, and that wasn’t right, James couldn’t be gone—  
  
When he took a step back, this time, he ran into some sort of abandoned equipment, an IV stand on the loose, and when he tried to regain his balance he couldn’t find any.  
  
His back had ended up pressed to the wall. Slowly, he slid down it, until he was sitting on the floor, arms resting on pulled-up knees.  
  
Surgery, they’d said. That meant they could still do something. Had options to try.   
  
He’d thought that day, the day he’d gotten that phone call, would forever be the worst day of his life. He’d picked up his phone, juggling that and the day’s last-minute script-change pages; seen the unfamiliar number, heard the heavily-accented young woman mispronounce his name and mention her association with a hospital he’d never heard of, and he’d nearly hung up…   
  
She’d asked whether he was in fact the Michael Fassbender who was James McAvoy’s emergency contact.  
  
He’d dropped the script pages. They’d hit the ground and scattered, fallen leaves.  
  
He’d believed that that _had_ to be the worst day of his life, then or yet to come. James had been sick and injured, in another country, going into surgery, without him there.  
  
This time he was there. This day was worse.   
  
They should’ve been done with the hurt, James home and healed and pale and smiling. They should’ve been busy making dinner, the cozy scent of fresh-baked bread drifting through the air while Michael wielded knives at chicken and vegetables and James laughed and nudged him out of the way to get countertop space for dessert. They should’ve been safe.  
  
Michael, sitting on the floor of the hospital corridor, trembling, wanted to scream or weep or put his fist through the wall: _it’s not right, it’s not fair, it’s not what should have happened…_  
  
He didn’t do any of those things, because the only thing he really wanted was to see James again, blue eyes bright and happy and alive.  
  
He just sat there and shivered. The floor was too damn cold.  
  
A passing nurse glanced down at him, frowned, scurried off. An indeterminate time later another nurse came back, this one older and male and calm-eyed, and he coaxed Michael up off the ground and into the nearest waiting room with promises of the latest updates, minute by minute.  
  
Michael stared at the closest chair for a while, trying to remember what to do with it. It stared back, unhelpfully. After some indeterminate time, he sat down on it. What people did, with chairs. Wasn’t it?  
  
The chair was probably designed to be comfortable, but it felt more or less exactly like the floor. Might’ve only been his perceptions, though.  
  
The man came back. Patted him on the shoulder. Still in the operating room. No news.  
  
James, the first time, had been out of surgery within a few short hours. Had then, being himself, managed to charm one of the attendants into bringing him apple juice and his mobile phone, from which he’d called Michael, drowsily, and said, _I love you, I think I had a very strange dream about your teeth, and I’m a bit cold, can you please come bring me an extra blanket?_  
  
Michael, standing in the middle of a crowded airport in Ireland, waiting for the next available flight out, had started to cry.  
  
He wasn’t crying now. He wasn’t certain why. Everything felt numb.  
  
The lights were too loud, overhead. They gleamed down cruelly. Of course they did. They were angry at him, for not taking better care of James.  
  
He’d been given a second chance, bringing James home the first time, those blue eyes at his side again. But clearly he’d not done enough, not tried hard enough, missed some warning sign or symptom or suggestion of failed recovery.   
  
He _had_ failed. He’d failed James. Who was lying on a cold table in a distant operating room, back under surgeons’ scalpels, and that was wrong, it wasn’t James who should be paying the price, not when it was Michael’s fault for not noticing sooner…  
  
In fact, he’d been crying all along, he realized, when he blinked and his cheeks felt wet.  
  
Please, he thought again. Please. One more chance. Just one more. Anything. Anything at all, just save him.  
  
Not exactly a prayer—he’d not prayed in years, lapsed altar boy that he’d become. But maybe God or the universe or someone kind would hear him, anyway. Would listen, this one last time.  
  
There was a change in the air, and a throat-clearing that suggested the person’d been standing there for some time, waiting for him to look up.  
  
The calm-eyed nurse again. Smiling. Smiling?  
  
“Mr Fassbender?”  
  
Michael tried to speak, and then only nodded.   
  
“He’s out of surgery, he’s doing fine—there was a fair amount of inflammation at the site and he’ll be needing—are you all right? Here, sit down—head between your knees, please—”  
  
Michael gulped in air. After a second, the dizziness went away, leaving only the relief.  
  
“He’s—he’s fine, you said…”  
  
“Well, we’re pretty sure he will be.” This verdict was delivered with a firm grip on his arm. Michael wanted to cry again. “He’s not awake yet, and he’s going to be on antibiotics for a while, and it’s not likely to be a quick recovery, but, yes, he’s stable and he’s doing okay…”  
  
Michael sat there. Let the words, the explanations, wash over him. Something done too hurriedly, the frantic first time around. Complications. Adhesion. Internal bleeding from broken stitches. But James was all right. Would be all right.  
  
That was the only part that mattered.   
  
Later, the rest would matter too, of course. He wasn’t going to let James down again. Would do everything right this time. Rest and liquids and brief exercise, walking around the room and back into bed, himself there with painkillers and extra pillows, everything anyone suggested for easier healing…  
  
A new arrival, in their room. Saying the best words Michael’d ever heard spoken. James, awake, coming out of the anesthesia. Asking for him.  
  
He started out walking, trying to behave himself in the hospital corridors. Ended up nearly running. Couldn’t help it. James, alive.  
  
James was lying very still in the bed, looking tinier than usual surrounded by all the crisp clean white; but he was watching the door, and those brilliant eyes lit up when they landed on Michael, sprinting to his side.  
  
Michael said, “James—” and then had to grab the side of the bed for stability, with the hand that wasn’t reaching out for those freckled fingers.  
  
“Love you.” James took his hand. Smiled, weakly. “Are you all right?”  
  
“That,” Michael said, muffled by all the tears, “that’s my line. I love you. I love you so damn much. I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Hey.” James struggled into more of an upright position; Michael yelped, “Don’t you dare!” and lunged for the bed controls. “If you want to sit up I can—”  
  
“It’s fine, I think they’ve got me on enough drugs for ten addicts…come here. Look at me. Actually, kiss me first, then look at me.”  
  
Michael leaned down and touched their lips together, holding his breath, the barest brush of skin to skin. James’s skin was warm, and soft, and slightly dry from the hospital air, and the kiss tasted of saltwater and relief and pure exhausted shivering joy.  
  
“So,” James murmured, leaning their heads together, “I heard you try to apologize, there. That’s kind of ridiculous, you understand. Not like you caused this.”  
  
“I—but I did, I wasn’t—I should’ve taken better care of you, should’ve made you go in and get looked at, earlier, at least as soon as I got home—”  
  
“Michael. I love you. And that’s still ridiculous. This isn’t your fault.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“No. You were busy filming—one of us has to be working, you know—” Those eyes were teasing him, blue as a cloudless summer sky; but Michael couldn’t quite be cajoled yet. James kissed him again, quickly. “You did take care of me. You’ve been taking care of me. And, what makes you think I’d’ve listened if you had insisted? Come on, you know us better than that…”  
  
“Us,” Michael echoed, because he could, because he still could. Us. Him and James.  
  
“Yes,” James said, and squeezed his hand. “Both of us. Still here.”  
  
“Please don’t ever do that to me again,” Michael said, quietly, fervently, and sat down in the chair at his side, their fingers staying entwined.  
  
“No. I saw you—well. The way you looked, in the car. And just now. And I know how I’d feel if it were you. If anyone’s apologizing, it’s me.”  
  
“Or your first set of surgeons.”  
  
“Yes, fair enough…” James sighed, tipped his head back against the pillows, shifted position a fraction. “You’re not allowed to kill anyone, though.”  
  
“Are you comfortable? And I’m pretty sure I should, for this.” He didn’t have room for anger, yet, but that’d come.   
  
“Fine, as long as you keep touching me. They told me not to leave the hospital, the first time. I should’ve listened.”  
  
“And I shouldn’t’ve let you not listen. So…we’ll both work on that, then?”  
  
“I don’t really want to do this again, so yes.”  
  
“Don’t,” Michael said, the words flying out of their own volition, “don’t even joke about that. Please.”  
  
James gazed at him for a few perceptive seconds. Tapped his fingers gently over the back of Michael’s hand, tangible cadence. “I won’t, then. I love you.”  
  
“Love you.” Forever. For always.  
  
In the peaceful hush, the room grew warmer. Even the sterile overhead lights decided to smile down.  
  
“Want to read to me, or something? I’m kind of tired, but I’d rather not go back to sleep yet.”  
  
“Um…okay…” A frantic glance around the room revealed nothing literary in nature. “Or…”  
  
“Never mind, then. Honestly not trying to cause you more stress.”  
  
“No, wait.” Desperate—James was asking—he’d had an idea. Fished out his mobile phone. Held it up. “Feel up to bad internet fan fiction? About us?”  
  
“Seriously? Yes, by all means.”  
  
“I’d meant to show you this one later—I even saved it because I thought you’d laugh—”  
  
“Am I a prostitute again?”  
  
“No. Lonely steel mill owner. I, however, am an exotic dancer by night. And a welder by day. With dreams of breaking into the world of ballet.”  
  
“You’re _what?”_ James practically doubled over laughing. Then stopped.  
  
“James!”  
  
“Okay, that…might’ve hurt a little…no, I’m fine, I’m fine, I can totally sit up…”  
  
“You can _not_. Don’t move, don’t move, just breathe…like that…in and out…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Should I call a nurse, or—”  
  
“Don’t you dare. See? Fine.”  
  
“Not by any accurate definition of the word, you’re not.”   
  
“You told me I would be,” James said, looking up at him. “You told me to believe you, when I said I was scared. And I did believe you. And you were right.”  
  
Michael shut his eyes. Drew a single shaky breath, at that, at those words. Then one more. “I was terrified.” I still am, he added, silently. James might’ve heard that second sentence anyway, from the look in those eyes, when they found his.  
  
“You saved me. You did, you know. Everything you did—you did save me. When you remember this, you have to remember that, too.” And then, just before Michael would’ve lost the battle and started crying all over again, perfectly timed because James _was_ perfect, always, “You should also kiss me now. And then share your story. You did offer, and now I’m curious.”  
  
“James,” Michael protested, blinking rapidly, but the tropical-ocean eyes were open and guileless and clear, honest about the amount of pain, this time. James had promised to be honest. And Michael, looking into all the sparkling blue, believed him.  
  
When he kissed that inviting mouth as instructed, James smiled, and ran his tongue along Michael’s bottom lip, tantalizing, beckoning.  
  
“No. Definitely no. Not anytime soon. Not for _weeks_.”  
  
James sighed, but gave up trying to torment him and instead scooted over on the hospital bed. “Come here.”  
  
“Is that allowed?”  
  
“No. But I want you to hold me.”  
  
“All right.” He wanted that too. And the feeling of his arms, closing around James, filled the last chilly holes at the bottom of his heart with sunlight.  
  
“So, what’s this one called?”  
  
“Um…‘What a Feeling: A Tale of Leg Warmers and True Love.’ ”  
  
“Sounds promising.”  
  
“You’re not the one wearing the leg warmers.”  
  
“Even better.”  
  
“Do you actually want me to read to you, or are you going to keep interrupting?”  
  
“Both. Someday I’m going to actually write one of my own. You can even help me with it. Maybe I’m a bookshop owner, and you can be the gorgeous and unattainable international film star who wanders into my quiet store one afternoon for refuge…”  
  
“Isn’t that the plot of _Notting Hill_?”  
  
“Yes. That’s part of the fun. Or we could do _Sleepless in Seattle_ , and you could propose to me on top of the Empire State Building…”  
  
Michael opened his mouth. And then looked at James. Really looked at him, lying there smiling, horizonless eyes all jewel-blue and amused, making Michael smile too.  
  
James always knew how to make him smile.  
  
He’d begged for one more chance. Miraculously, through some undeserved gift of grace, he’d been given one.  
  
He looked back at his phone. Made efficient use of Google, for a second, out of view of those curious eyes.  
  
“Why’re you grinning?”  
  
“Does it have to be the Empire State Building?”  
  
“What? Oh. Well, in that story it is, yes. Would you rather ask me, or should I be the one to propose to you, do you think?”  
  
Michael took a deep breath. Said, “I think this is me asking you. Now,” and held up his phone, with that happy display of a simple gold band glimmering away.  
  
James stared at him, said, “Oh my god yes,” and then started to cry.  
  
“James—! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know this wasn’t how you ever imagined—I don’t even have a real ring for you, but I will, I swear I will, and I can ask you again, you don’t have to answer now—”  
  
“Still ridiculous,” James said, and sat up and yanked him into the best kiss of their lives, hospital bed and tear-tracks and all, “I’m happy, I’m crying because I’m happy, this is amazing, you’re amazing, and yes, completely yes, always—”  
  
“I love you,” Michael said, and found himself saying over and over, into all that hair, surrounded by the feeling of James in his arms. “I love you. So much.”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“You said yes.”  
  
“I did.” Blue eyes peeked up at him, suddenly; James bit his lip, all at once hesitant. “You—no, never mind.”  
  
“What? Tell me.” James would speak up, if he was in pain or feeling ill, wouldn’t he? This time? “Please.”  
  
“Um. You’re not—you didn’t just decide to ask me because you’re scared, because I nearly died…?”  
  
“Jesus,” Michael said, and put one hand over his mouth, and then over James’s mouth instead, “don’t say that. Those words. Not ever again. And no, I didn’t.”  
  
James looked briefly thoughtful, then kissed his palm, which meant that Michael had to remove the hand and kiss him properly on the lips in return. “Sorry. But…”  
  
“No. I know why you’d ask. And that’s maybe why right now. But I’m not asking you to marry me because you almost—what you said. What we’re not saying.”  
  
“Michael—”  
  
“I know, I know, just…give me a few days. Before I can say it. Or think it. Please. And that’s still not why I’m asking. I’m asking you to marry me because I can’t imagine living without you.”  
  
“Michael,” James said again, holding his hand, “yes.”


End file.
